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 rollin' head fell forward, a right swing connected with acrunchin' plop! Dead to the world, Tiger Capato slid along the lower rope, sagged there for a second, and then slid like a sack of flour under it and down almost in Dummy Carney's shakin' arms. The Kid stepped back and threw up his head.

"Laugh at that, you fools!" he roared, and walked to his corner in the nearest thing to silence I ever met in a fight club. Then the mob got its second wind, and they must of heard 'em in Los Angeles and figured another quake had arrived.

It took about five minutes for the crowd to get sane enough to even start for the doors, and it took about fifty cops to keep 'em out of the ring. The Kid's color had come back, and he's interested only in gettin' my word that I didn't get hurt when he dumped me through the ropes, and that I ain't off of him. He must of apologized ninety times at the least!

"By Gad, I need a keeper!" he says, still grippin' my hand. "I—I must have lost my head completely when that crowd gave me the laugh!" He give a shiver. "Ten thousand of them laughing at me—imagine, sitting there and jeering as if I were some sort of clown!" He blazed up again for a instant and then looks kinda shamefaced. "Darn it all," he says, shakin' his head, "I've broken my promise to Capato's wife—I said I'd let him stay, but that laugh drove everything out of my head but—"

"Shut up!" I howls, crazy with joy. "You done a beaucoup job."

A little guy shoves his way over to us. It's the